


ITQ Promptathon

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, a bit of an anthology, just for one chapter though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Works inspired by asks that I got on my Incorrect Tolkien Quotes blog.





	1. When It Rains

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: literally anything about Maedhros/Fingon

_it is raining when you find him._

Your grip slips on the wet stone, the sharp rock cutting your soft hands to ribbons, and the bloody palm prints stain the freezing desolate world of grey. Lightning cracks the sky overhead. It is a miracle you are seen and heard, a miracle the sheets of stinging droplets don’t sweep you from the cliffs, and when you fall you slide down jagged spears of granite and tear your robes to shreds. You resolve at last to kill him - there is a twisted freedom in death, and thus the oath you swore in the deep places of your heart is fulfilled - for how, in this storm, can you find a way to where he hangs? But your bowstring is hopelessly wet and your tears blind you more than the rain and when you fire your shot goes wild, and you despair.

The eagle appears in a flurry of feathers and scattered raindrops, and your heart is right up in your throat because you are a traitor, a Kinslayer, an apostate, how can there be mercy? And yet it lands, inclines its head, and suddenly hope sparks the cold ash of your heart and you bind up bloody hands with scraps of blue and silver and climb up slick wings into the fierce storm and then you are airborne, and there is rain in your eyes but you force yourself to focus on the smudge of flesh and copper hair that even now stands in stark contrast to the sheer walls of hell looming before you. You leap for him, shoulders aching, the tiny cuts down your arms and legs stinging, and your nails are torn from your fingertips as you cling to bare rock and ugly iron shackle. He is unresponsive beneath you, and you see the bones beneath paper-thin skin and weep.

It is desperation that draws you to the knife. The metal of the shackle is unforgiving, and his wrist is gangrenous and torn, and even in the half-dark and howling winds you know you cannot linger. Discovery could come at any moment. You act quickly, the bones grinding and snapping at a blow from the hilt of your blade, and even now he is cold and silent, and there is blood pouring from your first attempts (how can he not feel this, how can he not move, not cry out?) but you press yourself to the cliffs and cut and cut until you are spattered with crimson and your stinging hands are slick with sweat and gore. This will haunt my nightmares, you think, and you are right.

The last slice takes you by surprise. He sags and slides downward and you you are almost too slow to catch him, but you drop the cursed knife and set aching fingers into the razor edges of the shackle and somehow, somehow, you hold him up against rain-drenched stone. You bury your face in his bruised shoulder and pray for salvation. The eagle waits for you, daring the storm to set it off course, and its wings brush the cliff walls with each pass. You gather him into your arms (so light, so light, nothing but bone) and you leap again before you fall, and the blood soaking through the bandages on your hands mingles with his. You are exhausted and ragged, and you cover him with what’s left of your outer cloak before collapsing into dreamless sleep.


	2. Reincarnated Modern AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kongming asked: Drabble prompt: Reincarnated Feanorians in the modern world. I will love you forever if you do this btw

“Is someone going to answer that door?”

“Answer it yourself, woman.” the Elf-lord commented from where he sat - or, more accurately, lounged - on a leather couch. Nerdanel responded to this command by (lightly) smacking her pompous ass of a husband with the skillet she’d been preparing for seasoning.

“ _Ai!_ “ Fëanor cried out, but Nerdanel laughed.

“‘Twas but a tap, my lord; are you so easily undone?”

With a grumble, the Noldo got up from where he’d been resting and walked over to his front door. The hall of this Second-Born home was far from what he’d intended, but he did find some pride in the blown glass he’d managed to incorporate into the foyer. He opened the heavy wood door, pasted on a false smile, and -

“ _Adar_!”

The elf-lord staggered backward under the weight of the unexpected embrace of his son, and in a flood of emotion he returned the hug.

"… Ambarussa?” he asked, pulling back. “I didn’t… I thought…”

“Thought what?” Amras commented from behind his twin. “That Mandos only sent _you_ back?”

Fëanor froze, Amrod slipping out of his arms as he stared in shock at the son he thought he’d lost.

"I… Ambarto…?” he murmured, scarcely daring to breathe. “I cannot believe it…”

“Hello, Father.” Amras answered with a smile more reminiscent of a smirk than a genuine grin. “How’s Mother?”

There was a cry of shock and a massive clattering in the kitchen, and then Nerdanel came into the foyer as if on the wings of a storm. There was joy in her face, definitely, but also a justified rage.

“Where _have_ you been?” she demanded, and her sons shrank from her gaze. “I come back and find out one of you _died_ and we’ve been here for years and you _never bothered to come calling? Once?_ ”

Fëanor chuckled, but she turned on him too.

"And _you!”_ the fiery-haired lady said, an accusing finger pointing at her husband’s chest. “You’re responsible for this!”

"I… my love, can we perhaps…?”

“Oh dear.” Amrod murmured to his twin.

“Well, at least Father’s getting his comeuppance.” Amras answered. And Nerdanel pressed on, lambasting her husband with oaths in tongues unheard on Earth for millenia.

It was going to be a fantastic Thanksgiving.


	3. Éowyn/Faramir Smut-Free D/s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enochianwarbirds asked: Eowyn and Faramir in a really cute cuddly fem!D/s relationship. She calls him "pet." He wears a pink leather dog collar with rhinestones. Scenario up to you (no smut, pls).

It was early in the morning when breakfast was served for the Ithilien garrison, and though Faramir by all rights could sleep in until whenever he chose (after all, he was the Steward) he often rose early to take meals with his men. And it was on one such morning that his Captain noticed that something had changed about his beloved leader.

“Um, sir, is that what I think it is?”

“What are you talking about, Beregond?” Faramir inquired, already smiling a bit.

“I - you’re wearing a collar.”

“And?”

“It’s pink. And it has diamonds on it.”

“My wife requested I wear it. I, being secure in my masculinity and not wishing to displease her, knew it was better to obey in this regard and guarantee a warm bed for the near future.”

Beregond raised an eyebrow and tried to hide his amusement.

“So your wife has taken to giving you orders, milord?” he asked in between bites of bread.

“Believe me,” Faramir said drily, “if the Lady Éowyn were your wife you would do whatever she desired.“

"And rightly so,” a light voice answered from behind them. Faramir turned, and Beregond practically leapt to his feet in a show of respect. Éowyn of Rohan stood in the door to the garrison mess hall, wearing a white gown but girt with a sword. Faramir smirked as she sat beside him, giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek.

“Morning, pet.” she said with a smile, and Beregond hastily sat down again.

“Good morning.” Faramir replied.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I was thinking of going riding today, you should come along.”

“But I - !”

“You work too much.” Éowyn argued. “And I’m sure Beregond can handle things for the day.“

"Of course I can, milady.” the guard said. “You can depend upon me.“

"Good,” she said, “because I and my pet are going out for the day, and I don’t want to be bothered.“

She rose again, tugging Faramir behind her by his very pink collar. Beregond wondered for a moment if he should question his lord’s sanity, but then he recalled how Lord Faramir had praised his wife’s marital skills for days after the wedding and he reasoned, perhaps wisely, that the reason for his acquiescence was that said skills could very easily be withheld for any reason whatsoever. He hoped they had a good day and thought nothing else about the matter.


	4. Aragorn/Arwen Smut (Movieverse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thrandilf asked: oMFG CAN I GET SOME ARWEN/ARAGORN SMUT PLEASE 
> 
> (this is the explicit chapter, though it's not really Explicit.)

He couldn’t sleep, and when he tried he dreamed of her.

It had been two hours since Elrond had spoken to him, had confided in him that Arwen - _his_ Arwen - was dying, and the news took his heart and shattered it into pieces. He knew what he had to do, but he was afraid to do it, and yet…

~*~

This was a dream. He knew it had to be a dream, because he wasn’t in Rohan anymore, he was home, in Imladris, and he was walking through the halls to a room he’d never ventured to before.

 _Her_ room.

His fingers brushed against the carved wood of the door, and then he was walking forward, pushing into her bedchamber, and -

\- and she was there, and she was looking at him, and she was in a sheer gossamer slip of a gown and he could see _everything_ through it.

He was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Elros and the Kings of Númenor, but looking at her unmanned him completely.

“Is this a dream?” he asked, or thought rather. “Are… are you _here_? With me?“

Arwen Undómiel looked at her betrothed, and her eyes gleamed with the light of the stars, and though she did not speak words passed through her thoughts to his own.

"This may be a dream,” she replied in kind, “but we are together. I am here with you. I am dying, and in my death my fëa sought out your spirit for comfort.“

He took her hand, and wanted to beg her not to say that, wanted to reassure her all would be well. But of course it would not, not if Frodo failed, not if the Ring was reclaimed by the Enemy.

"Arwen,” he said, and he knew he’d spoken it aloud, “ _vanimelda, namaríë._ ”

She kissed him, and in the vision they shared her lips burned with a cold fire that filled him and drew him into manhood once more. His arms went about her back, almost moving reverently as if afraid to break her, and her fingers were at his clothing, pulling, tugging, stripping the layers from his body until it was only him before her. Arwen looked at him, and her eyes were still like stars in the night sky, and she guided his hands to the straps of her gown and together they let them fall.

The glory of her body was nearly enough to blind him, and yet somehow he could still see. And she took him into her arms, pulling him back into the couch that served as her bed, and her fingers were at his lips and his mouth was reverently devouring the white flesh of her breasts. She shifted beneath him, moaning; he looked up and saw the passion in her eyes and was no longer afraid.

"Estel,” she murmured, and his heart thundered within him, “ _av’osto, hîr vuin._ ”

He raised himself up, and the hardness of his manhood found its way to the warmth of her sex before sliding inside her, and then it was nothing but a blissfully blazing paradise within her arms cooled by the softness of her breasts.

He moved within her, and she without him, and with each shift his pleasure intensified until he thought he would burst. His lips closed about her breast and her arms were tight around his shoulders and then something happened and time seemed to stretch and he _exploded_ and spilled his seed deep within her. She cried out, screaming his name almost, and they were everywhere and nowhere and _one_.

~*~

He woke up drenched in sweat, and had to explain to Legolas why he needed an extra pair of leggings.


	5. Fëanor & Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nonillions asked: Feanor & The Reader (2nd Person): Feanor doesn't like what the reader's made for dinner.

“What in the hell is this?”

“You don’t even believe in a hell, elf boy.” you remark, not bothering to hide your annoyance at thepompous ass of a prince before you. He pokes at his spaghetti with a fork as though forks are an alien concept - and to him, they might be - and scowls.

“I can’t sit here and eat while Morgoth still has the Silmarils.”

You turn to him, eyebrow raised, and sigh.

“Until we figure out how to get you back in the book where you belong,” you remind him, “you’re stuck with me. Eat your spaghetti.“

“What is spaghetti?” he asks, and he draws out the word like it’s some kind of foreign cuisine, and you blush a little bit because you don’t like him like that but dear _god_ he makes the word so sexy in his almost-but-not-quite Finnish accent.

“It’s pasta. Flour and water rolled into little sticks and then baked and boiled. It’s like 50p at the shop down the road. Everybody has spaghetti.”

“A feast for a king.” Fëanor remarks, still less than pleased. “And what are you, anyway?“

"Excuse me?” you ask.

Fëanor takes a bite of the spaghetti and sighs before continuing. “You’re not of the Noldor. Are you Avari?“

You groan, because of course he’d come out of the book before he met anybody other than an elf, and at this point in time he wasn’t exactly famous for his tolerance.

"I’m human.” you say with a sigh. “Not Noldorin, not Avari. Second Born. It’s like you but not.“

He’s silent as he eats, and once the plate is cleaned he frowns.

"So you’re mortal.”

“Yes, isn’t everybody? Oh, right. Elf. I keep forgetting.”

“I neither condone nor appreciate the rudeness. I am King, after all.”

“Your brother has just as much claim to that title as you and you know it, especially after what you did at Losgar!”

His eyes alight and he draws his sword, and suddenly you’re backed up against the counter and grabbing a steak knife.

“Do. Not. Challenge. Me.” he growls, and suddenly you’re warm and he seems to shift to something more than a man and no stop thinking about that he can _see_ it in your eyes. So you glare and brandish the steak knife and grab his plate and dump more food onto it before shoving it into his free hand.

“Sit down, elf boy,” you growl, “and eat your damn spaghetti.“


	6. Sauron and Morgoth At Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Sauron/ Morgoth having a bro day (which is probably terrible for everyone else).

The Mouth of Morgoth was neither a mouth nor a part of Morgoth. In fact, it had long ago ceased to be anything at all, but it found that staying attached to its decapitated skull and continuing to do its job was quite preferable to the eternal flames that resignation would represent.

Its job, of course, was to serve as the medium through which the Dark Lord of All Things, Melkor, Corrupter of the Song, He Who Defied Eru the Creator, communicated to his various minions. It wasn’t entirely sure how it received the memos from said Dark Lord of All Things, nor was it sure how its now-nonexistent voice continued to spread the Commandments that Spread Darkness Throughout Arda; it wisely decided to ignore the small details and focus on relaying everything as best it could.

“Today,” it said in a voice that would have been monotone had it been a voice at all, “is the annual Lieutenant Appreciation Day. Please remember that volunteering for any and all experiments that might occur to our Dark Lord Melkor, all hail his darkness, is both recommended and mandatory upon seeing either him or his lieutenant Sauron the Great. Failure to attend the Thank You Sauron banquet being held in the Hall of a Thousand Tortures is… well, you won’t be failing, now will you?“

If the Mouth of Morgoth would have had a sense of humor, that might have made it laugh. But it was just a voice, nothing more, and besides, laughing was why it had lost its head in the first place.

Better to keep up the good work, and avoid a fate worse than life after death.

~*~

"… is it weird to say that I sort of love you?” Sauron asked from where he sat by the window.

“Not at all.” Melkor declared with a smile. “Everyone loves me.“

"Everyone except the Noldor. Oh look, the orc cannon I made is working!”

Outside, a few faint screams in some bastardized Black Speech could be heard. The orc cannon was something Melkor and Sauron had built together - well, they’d designed it together and turned it into a “team building exercise” for their legions of slave-soldiers - and it worked by loading a living projectile into a launch chamber and then firing said living projectile right into a rock face. Melkor needed the blood for some ancient and eldritch incantation; Sauron merely enjoyed the screams.

Between the two of them they rather covered the spectrum of psychopathy.


End file.
